


Glumbumble Honey

by PaperClipFox



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha Original Percival Graves, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, F/M, Letters, M/M, Meddling Ancestor, No Underage Sex, Omega Newt Scamander, Original Percival Graves is Half French, Secret Identity Fail
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-04-23 02:58:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19142188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperClipFox/pseuds/PaperClipFox
Summary: Percival felt too old for all the pomp and mystery of a Gala, yet he found himself at one, at Maman's behest. The last thing he expected to happen came to pass when he returned home without his lapel pin.





	1. The Gala

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first return to writing fanfic in years. This fic is purely self-indulgent and therefore features tropes I enjoy. Chief of those being the age difference trope. Yes, Newt is underage in this and the age difference with Percival is large but nothing sexual will happen while Newt is underage. Percival's mother is French and you'll have to pry this headcanon from my dead hands. 
> 
> I do not have a beta reader, but I will try the utmost best I can to make my work legible. 
> 
> This chapter is 17 pages long, so enjoy.

Witley Court, Worcestershire, England

8 August 1913

 

Percival’s mind was occupied with a case, and as a Captain of Team Gemma within the Department of Aurors, he thought that he had really upset someone for it to be assigned to him. He went over the information he had memorised while he stood in the middle of a ballroom sipping at subpar whiskey.

Percival let the house-elf take his empty glass and signalled another to float over another tumbler of Firewhiskey. It was not his favoured brand of whiskey but was the better option from the selection of beverages in circulation in the room. Personally, he favoured No-Maj whiskey as it allowed him to savour it. He took a sip and glanced back to the pack of gathered alphas he had found himself in conversation with. The talk had still not moved on from the eligible omegas among the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight.

“No Favours yet, Mr Graves?”

Percival looked to the man that had addressed him. Alphas, amongst themselves, were allowed to use their names. Surnames, mind, for it, was an ostentatious gathering for those of higher society. He failed to recall the man’s name. His thoughts were with lists upon lists of witness reports and floor plans.

“No, I’m not in the business of Favour hoarding, especially for sport.” He pointedly looked at several of them who brazenly had two or more mismatched Favours pinned to their collars. Personally, he himself had about six Favours, but none were on display. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

With the tumbler in hand, he darted from the group and wove his way between the other guests, politely turning down invitations to join in on other conversations. He found his way towards the back and put his drink down on the bar. Very few people loitered here when house-elves circulated to replenish drinks and serve hors d'oeuvres. Percival took a moment to let his eyes wander about the ballroom. Witley Court’s ballroom was a lengthy, rectangular space that did not have the width expected of a ballroom, but it allowed for a sizable yet intimate gathering of the high society from the wizarding world. Delicate crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow but illuminated the space enough so as to not strain the eyes nor draw too much attention to the large paintings that animatedly observed the guests. It was a fine venue indeed, but certainly not worth wasting vacation days over. _Maman_ had used her silver tongue to make him attend this Favouring Gala.      

“You certainly had to have stolen a few hearts by now, old chap.”

Percival snapped his eyes away from the walls to look at Theseus. He gave the man a lopsided smirk.

“It would appear the family reputation has stolen a few hearts, not me,” Percival replied.

The Favours in his pocket seemed to weigh him down all of a sudden. Various little pins of silver, gold and the odd precious stone clinked slightly as he shifted to the side to let Theseus stand beside him. He had not asked for them, nor had he gone out of his way to gather them. Percival had only accepted them out of polite courtesy. His own silver Favour was still securely pinned to his left lapel. He had no intentions of gifting his Favour to just anyone, even someone of European high society, much to M _aman’s_ chagrin.    

Theseus got a tumbler of smoking firewhiskey from the house-elf tending the bar and clinked his glass to Percival’s.

“I wouldn’t give your name all the credit,” Theseus laughed. “You and the French do catch the eye more in those single-breasted waistcoats while the rest of us are still in last century’s padded, heavy suits. Some pureblood bastards are even in robes. I can’t see them getting any Favours willingly.”

Percival agreed. “I noticed that you still have your Favour.”

Theseus fiddled with his lapel and the gold pin of the Scamander family crest shone as it caught the light. It was an intimidating family crest in his opinion – two spilt-tailed serpents had their tails twined around the large, flowering cardoon stalk between them. The serpents blinked lazily and tried to bite at each over the flower before the charm reset itself.

“Yes,” Theseus answered, and sipped at his drink, “and you still have yours. I know Aunt Aretha would still love to see that ghastly breast of a pin of yours on Cousin Ione.”

“I know she would.” Percival sighed quietly. “I hope Aretha is not expecting us to reconcile tonight. We ended things amicably enough. I made sure that, from my end at least, that the end of the courtship was final.”

Percival saw an unusual movement in his peripheral. Theseus was still talking to him and he lent the man half an ear but turned his head to try and find what had caught his attention. A wizard stood at the bar not too far from him, the man’s attention caught in his drink. Percival was about to turn his head back when he saw a tiny pink paw reach up into the man’s pocket.

The movement was slow and deliberate. Percival continued to watch, making the appropriate hum when there was a lull in Theseus’ talking. He couldn’t see much else of the creature, save for its leg, but as soon as Percival saw a pocket watch slipping out in the creature’s grasp, he was certain it was a niffler.

He was so amused that he decided against warning the man being stolen from. He'd hunt down the creature afterwards and return the stolen item, but it was all in good fun to just let it play out for the moment. Percival was surprised at the niffler’s intellect when it unclipped the clasp that kept the chain of the watch fastened to the hem of the pocket and quietly removed it.

“And so,” Theseus continued, being none the wiser that his friend’s attention was elsewhere, “my little brother is here. I had him by me for most of the night, but now it’s Cousin Ione’s turn to look after him for a spell.”

That caught Percival’s attention. “Isn’t he too young for this?”

He wasn’t entirely sure on the younger Scamander’s age as they had never formally been acquainted, but he was surely too young for a Favouring Gala. He even failed to put a face to a name he did not even know. He only knew as much as Theseus would divulge in their letters and the occasional conversation in person, which was little. The younger Scamander had as of yet only been referred to as “little brother.”

“Yes, Mother and I are like of mind. Father and Aunt Aretha, however, thought it would do my little brother good to socialize with prospective suitors now that he is being tutored from home,” Theseus said quietly.

Percival turned his back to the bar and looked at the other guests. Theseus was called away, but Percival remained. He saw the wizard that had been standing at the bar as well had vacated his spot. The pilfering niffler sprang to the fore of his thoughts. A cursory glance about his immediate surroundings concluded that the niffler had moved on. He reached into his trouser pocket for his watch but found it empty. His wand and all the Favour pins were missing from his other pocket as well.

He had been robbed blind by a niffler of all things. Percival could only wonder if it had occurred before or after he had noticed the creature. He turned towards the bar again and looked over the top of the counter. 

“Would the master require another drink?” the house-elf asked.

“No, thank you,” Percival answered as he looked for signs of the niffler.

He left the bar and made his way through the crowd of guests. Percival saw no signs of the niffler. A woman touched his arm and moved her shoulder in a manner that made sure the light caught on her collar pins. He smiled and bowed his head before politely distancing himself from her and towards the doors. There were not many places he could wander off to, not without disrespecting the hosts. He searched hallways and rooms leading to the vestibule and then turned to walk through the gallery. None of the portraits were occupied, most of the subjects having left their portraits to occupy ones with a view of the Gala. Once he reached the end, he turned back around returned to the vestibule.

Percival could not let himself be outsmarted by a niffler. By Lewis, he was an auror and a Captain at that. He went outside and walked some way through the garden, away from other guests before he took out his cigarette case from an inner pocket of his jacket. Cigarettes were still seen as a No-Maj product in America and therefore difficult to find, but they were sold legitimately in some, select wizarding stores. Those cigarettes were imported from Middle Eastern wizarding manufacturers as wizarding tobacco farmers in America still rolled their harvests into fat cigars. It was a costly vice but he rarely indulged upon it.

Without his wand, Percival hoped his lighter was still in his jacket pocket. Upon retrieving it, he lit the end of the cigarette and quickly puffed at it, watching the smoke curl away. He needed his wand back. He didn’t so much mind the disappearance of the Favours, but it would be rude of him to just outright discard of them in such a manner.

He walked deeper into the garden. It was a beautiful night with nary a breeze and a waning quarter moon. Percival came upon a bench. He took out his cigarette case and considered for a moment how best to lure a niffler. The case – being silver and intricately carved– was shiny enough to pique the niffler’s interest, of that he was sure, but he was also sure that it was interested in little else other than how shiny it was. Percival deftly wiped the case along his trousers to give it an extra shine.

He laid down the case beside him on the bench and waited. It was a long shot, but Percival had little choice in the matter. He could very well perform a wandless accio, but he was terrified of the possibility of summoning _every_ niffler within his spell’s vicinity. He also did not want to cause a scene if the niffler happened to still be inside the Gala. Percival could just imagine the utter chaos a niffler zipping through the air of the ballroom would cause.

Percival withdrew his lighter once more and fiddle with it as loudly as possible. He tapped his fingers along its metal surface, his fingernails making _clinking_ sounds in the quiet night. Time went by and Percival had finished off his cigarette, stubbing out the smouldering end on the heel of his shoe. He should have been at his desk, correlating witness reports or kicking down Billy Blackfingers’ door, yet there he was, on a bench trying to catch a niffler.  

He had started to think his plan was futile when he heard a tell-tale scuttering and a sniffle.  

Percival kept still and glanced at the cigarette case beside him. A small, brown niffler tried jumping up onto the bench, alas struggling to actually pull itself up unto the surface. He continued to pretend not to notice the tiny creature’s presence and could not help a small smile when it finally managed to haul itself onto the bench. The niffler sniffed along the edge of the bench and edged towards the silver case. Percival waited for it to reach the case before he swiped out for it. He missed and it bounded away, but as the niffler was so close, Percival cast a quick accio. The niffler squeaked as it was pulled back into his open palm.

With the little thief held up by the scruff of its neck, Percival regarded the tiny thing. It looked smaller than the nifflers he had chased out of the stables back at home as a child. It was possible that this niffler was still a juvenile and not fully grown as of yet. 

“Starting your thieving career early, aren’t you little one?” Percival said jovially, happy to have his wand back. Once he had it back, he could leave the Gala and prepare for his journey back home.

He tipped the niffler upside-down and shook it about gently. Shiny buttons and British coins spilt from its pouch and onto the grass at Percival's feet. A pin came free from the pouch and he hoped his wand would soon follow. More buttons and a few rings fell out before the niffler had nothing left. Percival ran a finger over its pouch in a vain attempt to try and coax out something that was not in its possession.

“Oh dear.”

Percival’s head snapped to the side and saw a young man by a copse of trees behind him. He couldn’t make out much about them other than the person seemed to be carrying something in their arms.

“That’s the last one!”

“I’m sorry?” Percival asked, niffler still in hand.

The young man came forward and looked to the niffler. Percival heard soft squeaks and noticed the large charmed bubble in the young man’s arms with nifflers tumbling around inside. He noticed that the stranger had red-brown, windswept hair and freckles that were a stark contrast on the young man’s skin in the moonlight.

“The niffler,” the young man said, meeting Percival’s eyes for a moment.

“And?” Percival questioned. No one had a need for a niffler, let alone four of them, unless they were intended for illicit purposes. “What could you possibly want with a niffler?”

The young man stammered, not meeting Percival’s eyes. It indeed made him think that the young man was gathering the creatures up, possibly to sell to a fence, who would then see them enter into the black market to be shipped off to the far edges of criminal activity. 

“Nothing!” the young man said, looking at the bubble of nifflers in his arms. “I-I only want to gather them up, you see? It’s likely… that niffler you’ve got is the last one of the litter that I’ve gathered up. I noticed them stealing from the guests so I thought it would be proper to return the stolen items before they return to their burrow.”

Percival frowned and managed to make eye contact for a moment before the young man looked away to over his shoulder. From the accent and, as Theseus had pointed out, the outdated style of his suit, Percival concluded that the young man, no boy it seemed, was from Britain. He seemed young to be attending a Gala. He looked over the lapels and saw no pin, but caught sight of a pair of collar pins and their linking chain secured to the upturned collar just under the jaw. The boy was an omega.

It appeared as if the boy was a guest. Percival was still sceptical, but he was out of his jurisdiction to do much about it unless he wanted to pull the young man through the Gala and hand him over to Theseus. It would irreparably damage to his reputation if the young man turned out to be an actual guest. He regarded the niffler in his hand and then the boy. He decided to hand over the niffler and see how things played out.

Percival extended his arm out and held the struggling niffler to the boy.

The boy released his hold on the charmed bubble and let it float over to Percival, who held out his arm for the niffler to get sucked into the interior of the spell. The other nifflers sniffed at the latest arrival and then started crawling over each other in an attempt to find an escape.

Percival chucked at their antics. He looked to the boy whose rapt attention was on the tiny creatures.

“You didn’t happen upon a wand when you gathered them up, did you?” Percival asked. He hoped the boy did, but it was also yet another way try and see if the boy was up to no good.

“No,” the boy murmured. “I haven’t emptied any of their pouches yet – I wanted to get them all first you see, prevent the chance of the siblings making off with the spoils when I was busy tickling it out.”

Percival blinked. He had never heard of anyone _tickling_ a niffler before. He watched as the boy reached into the bubbled and gently pulled out one of the darker nifflers. The niffler shivered and squirmed in his hands, keeping a paw close to its chest.

“Is it hurt?”

The boy darted his eyes to and from Percival. “Yes. I managed to scare him away before an alpha could kill him with an incendio. He still caught the edge of the flames, but it’s better than the alternative. Do you like nifflers?” the boy asked in what seemed like a single breath.

“No, not really.” He saw the boy’s face fall. It amused Percival that this boy would go so far for nifflers because they surely wouldn’t fetch that high of a price in the black market. He looked at the collar pins again. A golden bee and a strange leaf were linked by a thin chain over the tie. “They’re thieving little creatures, but they don’t deserve to be burned alive when a good little shake will get your possessions back.”

“There’s an easier way to empty their pouches,” the boy said. “You had the gist of it earlier, but that shaking can be traumatic for a young niffler. Here, I’ll show you how to do it.”

Percival regarded himself as properly schooled over his niffler handling, and from a boy no less. Many alphas would not have tolerated such lip from the likes of an omega boy, but Percival was not that kind of man. He noticed the boy’s hands were dirty and mud was all over his spats and shoes and trousers. Definitely not overly concerned about his appearance so it would seem, even around an alpha.

“I believe you said something about tickling?”

The boy gave a shy smile, not meeting Percival’s eyes and took the niffler’s hind feet in one hand, tipping it over.

“Try tickling the belly,” he instructed.   

Percival stepped within arm's reach softly ran his fingers over the soft belly. The niffler shuddered somewhat but no pilfered goods fell from the pouch. He looked towards the boy who quickly made eye contact once more and Percival reasserted his effects and tickled the creature more animatedly.

“That was very brave of you,” Percival commended, “to save the niffler from the wrath of an alpha.”

“Oh, well. I can’t stand senseless killing, especially towards a creature that is vastly misunderstood, like most – oh, there you go!”  

The belly started wobbling and the niffler squeaked. Coins fell to the grass. A pearl necklace rushed out, along with a few choice accessories, but still no wand or pocket watch. He watched as the boy put the niffler back in the bubble and withdraw another. They repeated the process. Only by the third and last tickled niffler had Percival’s belongings fallen onto the grass.

“I can see why the niffler nicked your wand,” the boy commented, picking up the wand.

Percival tensed. The boy had yet to point the wand at him, but he could never be too cautious. He slowly changed his stance without the boy noticing and readied himself to cast a nonverbal, wandless disarming spell.

As the boy changed his grip on Percival’s wand, tiny blue sparks shot up into the night sky. Percival just reacted. He disarmed the boy and used _accio_ in quick succession. The boy quickly held up his hands in defeat.

“Please forgive me,” the boy apologized. “That was entirely by accident, I swear. I had no intention of doing anything.”

Percival stared wide-eyed at his wand and then the boy. His wand had never allowed another to use it before, not even Seraphina. It was a curious thing. The poor boy also looked close to tears. Percival sighed and lowered his wand. It was possible that he was too tightly strung, not that he would ever admit that if asked.

“No,” he refuted, “I am the one who should apologise. You seem like an honest boy, but I’ve had you pegged as a thief since I saw you. It is unbecoming of me and I am sorry if I frightened you just now.”

The boy darted his eyes to Percival, then his wand. “What, by Merlin’s beard, would I be stealing outside?”

With his free hand, Percival gestured to the nifflers.

“Oh, no, I’d never,” the boy confessed when he caught on. “Nifflers don’t deserve that life, locked away until a human deems them useful enough to do their crimes for them. Which, by the way, may be an annoying part of the niffler’s behaviour but it is their natural behaviour and no harm comes of it if you simply catch them, empty out their pouches and release them. They're smart creatures! Once they've been caught red-handed, they try not to return to the area of their capture again.

“Take your wand for example,” the boy continued, “they stole it, but it’s now back with its owner and unharmed by the whole ordeal, don’t you agree?”

He looked at his wand then back to the boy, making the wand travel along his knuckles with deft fingers. Percival agreed and watched as the boy visibly relaxed and started fidgeting with his sleeves. It was clear that the boy now felt awkward.

“I suppose I’m no better than a niffler myself. I like shiny things.” It was said in jest, his attempt to try and break the ice between them. He was, however, partial to silver, something that he would also never admit when asked.

The boy smiled halfheartedly. Percival's attempt at humour had failed, not that he was surprised. He would have to change his tactics.

“Twelve inches, flexible, ebony and a snallygaster heartstring core,” Percival listed off.

He inexplicably felt like showing off for a bit so he silently cast the Patronus charm. A large grizzly bear came to in a silvery light and shifted its weight from side to side. The boy watched, bright-eyed and curious. The bear lazily circled around the boy and then stood up on its hind legs to let out a low grumble before the spell ended.  

“I-I haven’t been able to cast a corporeal Patronus yet," the boy admitted. "My professor helps or did help me with it. Father says I just need more practice. He’s hoping to make an auror out of me yet.”

By the boy’s face, Percival concluded that that was not what the boy wanted out of life. “Being an auror is not for everyone. It can be very difficult, but helping others and upholding the law is a good reward in the end, for me at least. There’s nothing wrong with you not being an auror. You seem… too kind for that line of work.”

The boy’s eyes darted up to Percival’s, then away and he saw the boy blush. With his wand back where it belonged, Percival huffed at the small pile of coins and paraphernalia at his feet. It would be a headache to return all of it, but it was the right thing to do, after all. His knees popped as he hunkered down to gather everything. For the first time, he noticed how dirty his gloves had become from handling all those nifflers.

"You know," the boy started but snapped his mouth closed as soon as Percival looked his way.

“Yes?” he gently inquired. He was rather curious as to what the boy had to say.

The boy seemed to try to tuck his jaw into his shoulder and down to his collarbone. Percival waited and continued piling the coins in piles and detangling necklaces. Of course, there was a spell for this sort of thing, but he had to admit that it all seemed somewhat like solving a puzzle and the boy seemed to like having his hands busy.

“T-the house-elves,” was all that was said.

With a necklace knotted about a ring being his main focus, Percival merely hummed and hoped the boy would elaborate.

“The house-elves have magic.” There was a pause. “If we give all this to them, they should be able to see it all returned to their rightful owners.”

“Now, that is very clever,” he praised. “It would save me a lot of trouble.”

“Of course,” was the quiet response.

Percival has been hoping for a smile at least. The boy piqued his interest. He wanted to know how the omega was so relaxed around him because he either had no idea who Percival was or had little regard for the social rules for this kind of event. To be honest, either of those made Percival all the more keen on getting to, at least, know the boy’s name. The boy had shown more character in a handful of sentences than most omegas had with their bright smiles at the Gala.

When all the items had been sorted, the boy took out his own wand and a clean handkerchief, shrunk the items and carefully levitated them into the folds of the white cloth. Percival had hoped to see the initials embroidered in a corner, but he had no such luck. While the boy was occupied with the nifflers once more, he undid the stopper of the stick pin in his lapel and slipped it into the boy’s pocket as he made to inspect the nifflers himself. He made sure he had done it quickly before he could stop himself.

“They are rather adorable,” Percival commented as he watched the creatures reach into each other’s pouches to try and find a trinket.

“They are,” the boy agreed.   

Not finding an excuse to loiter in the gardens any longer, Percival bid the boy a good evening, but in a proper way. He slowly took the boy’s hand, despite the dirt caked under the fingernails and the smears over the pale skin, and gently placed his lips on his knuckles. He smiled as the boy blushed and pulled his hand back to pull the bubble of nifflers to his chest.

***

MACUSA, Woolworth Building, New York

 19 November 1913

 

Percival looped the red thread around thumbtacks pinned on key locations on the map. He stood back and regarded it for a moment. He had recently been moved to the Major Investigations Department, along with O’Brien – a show of good faith on behalf of the Director of Magical Security that their work on taking down a larger-than-anticipated smuggling ring had not gone unnoticed. Billy Blackfingers, however, had slipped away by the end of it.

“Graves,” a uniformed elf called out. “I’ve got an awfully fancy looking letter here for ya.”

That had gotten the attention of every auror in the room. Personal mail never arrived for him at work, especially mail of thick, quality paper like that. Percival took the letter and sat down at his desk to slip it into his drawer before O’Brien could get curious about it. His family crest was magically imprinted on the front, in place of his name. Mercy Lewis, it was a Favour letter. He flipped over the letter and spied the golden wax seal. A fat little bee was embossed into the wax. He heard his colleagues continue about their business and promptly closed the drawer. The boy had replied, albeit months later. Percival was unsure if he felt proud or disgusted with himself for having slipped his Favour into the boy’s pocket.

He spelled the drawer shut and continued working on case 13118B which involved an unsavoury type of witch or wizard who had taken a penchant to set fwoopers loose in No-Maj public spaces. Too many No-Majs were being admitted to mental institutions on the lower Eastern Seaboard with a similar diagnosis, naturally, it was a risk to the Statute of Secrecy to let it continue.

After having to wait on a firecall back form the Jacksonville field office for the third time, Percival decided to take his leave of the office for lunch. He withdrew the letter his desk drawer and slipped it into the inner pocket of his jacket, hoping the letter won’t crease until he could sit down to read it again. He had taken a liking to keep most of his possessions in the inner pocket of his jacket since the incident with the niffler at Witley Court.   

“I’m out for lunch,” Percival announced.

O’Brien and Wright smiled knowingly at him.

“You just don’t want us catching a whiff of that ‘awfully fancy looking’ perfumed letter you just snuck into your jacket,” Wright joked.

Percival felt his jaw clench. He was not there for idle gossip, he was in a work environment that was stress inducing and required teamwork from him when necessary for larger operations, and that was as far as he would go to interact with his colleagues. He had no friends in his department, nor in the entirety of the MACUSA building if he was honest (Picquery did not count, she was his direct superior now) so he had no idea why Wright was so nosy about it all.

“Last time I heard,” O’Brien chipped in, “which was yesterday, from all the cousins, was that Percival Graves was still the most eligible alpha in America. I’m gonna have to write a few letters to break the news to all my cousins that you’re nearly a kept man now.”

Percival sighed and smoothed a hand over his hair. “It doesn’t work that way overseas,” he replied, much to his own chagrin. He had to keep his private life separate from his work, more so if this letter was what he thought it was. His personal relationships or lack thereof had nothing to do with his colleagues.

Before the other aurors could hound him for more details than the one he had just let slip, Percival wedged his way between the other alphas and left the office. The elevator ride up to the entrance of the Woolworth Building was, blessedly, a quick one. Out on the streets, he wove his way between no-majs until he reached MACUSA approved disapparation point. He apparated into another MACUSA approved point in an alleyway in the Lower East Side.

With a look over his shoulder to the street packed with No-Maj, Percival walked deeper into the alley. He rounded a few corners and walked up to an old, rundown brick building. Sure that he had not been followed, he looked at the wall of the building. More and more No-Maj posters were plastered over the surface every time he returned. Percival tore them off until he would the poster he was looking for. A large, vibrantly coloured poster of a black cat with yellow eyes sat immobile.

With his fingers gliding over the curve of the cat’s back, Percival let some magic flow through his fingertips onto the paper. The cat shook its head and moved into a languid stretch before some of the bricks beneath the poster parted to let Percival in. The smell of home cooked food enticed him inside.

As he stepped over the threshold, the wall closed up behind him and he had to take a moment to let his eyes adjust to the room. The tiles had a dulled green and brown, hand-painted floral design throughout the café that worked well with the dark furnishings and the light blue wallpaper. The café was fairly busy, for a small establishment, but he hoped there would still be a table available.       

A witch showed him a table near the large windows, allowing him a view of the streets of Little Europe, a small wizarding community comprised those that had immigrated to America from all over Europe. It was nowhere as big as the No-Maj counterparts designated as Little Italy or Chinatown, but there were enough of them to want a neighbourhood with a small semblance of what they had left behind.  

A menu put itself down on the table before Percival and a quill and booklet soon followed. He ordered his drink and food and cast his eyes about for the owner. Faustine was an old friend of his _maman_ ’s and he made of point of visiting the café as regularly as his schedule allowed. She seemed to be in conversation with another customer, so Percival took the letter from his pocket and transfigured a teaspoon into a letter opener. He considered the image embossed on the wax. No British family name sprang to mind when he looked at the bee (or was it a bumblebee?) then again, those old families made separate crests for omegas of the family to use. It made no sense to him. In his family, if you were a Graves you had the right to use the crest, regardless of the caste.

He opened the letter and started reading.

   

_Dear P,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I know this letter may come as a surprise for you as you might not remember me at all. It has been months since I found your Favour in my pocket, and I truly had meant to write to you sooner, but I fear that any letter I wrote proved inadequate up until this point._

_As you may have realised during our encounter in the gardens, I am not one for much in the way of formalities. The guidelines I had consulted when writing the letters all seemed to make the letter woefully impersonal, and as this letter is meant to be the start of a series of correspondence between us, with the possibility of this being formalised into a courtship, formalities have been forgone._

_If, by the end of the second letter you do not wish to correspond any further, please do owl my pin back. I’ve managed to owl it without Mother noticing and I would dearly like it back as it is the only one in my possession. It would be disastrous for myself if I had to attend another Gala without it after you decline. I’m sure Mother would surely ban me from the stables and confine me to the house if he found out I was writing to without his knowledge. Sorry, that last bit was rather unnecessary, but I’m not going to waste even more paper than I already have to rewrite this entire letter._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_N_

_P.S. Your family certainly does have an interesting crest. If I’m not mistaken, you crest is a piasa bird head. Are there any piasa birds still in the wilds of America? This may be inappropriate and offensive, but I have to ask how accurate is your crest in its depiction of the piasa bird? There are only illustrations of the few murals that have been discovered and the writings on them are based on mere hearsay than fact, so the books on North American creatures always seem lacking._

Percival stared the initial signed at the bottom. He put down the letter and reached into the enveloped, and sure enough, there was a pin inside. The fat, little, golden thing rolled into his palm. He pinched the pin between his fingers and inspected it closely. The craftsmanship was fine, and from the heft of it, Percival had no doubt that it was solid gold. It was quite the show wealth if such a resource was put into a mere Favour pin, something that was meant to be given away, most likely never to be seen by the owner again. Most alphas destroyed unwanted pins and the fact that this boy, N, had asked for it to be returned intrigued Percival. Omegas usually had spares by the dozen.

It led Percival to think that either the family this boy came from was not as well off as the gold pin suggested and therefore hoped for a good match for financial reasons, or N had no easy access to his spare pins. Percival felt like the latter was more likely, as he gleaned from the letter that N had sent over his pin without notifying his family, as he should have. He did have to wonder how old this N was. For the most part, Percival had never minded an age difference between him and his partners, but society had other views. It was bad enough that he was thirty-one and still unmarried.  

A steaming bowl of cassoulet was placed on the table accompanied by the sound of swishing skirts. Percival looked up to see Faustine lay down an extra helping of bread. She was one of the few women, in his opinion, that aged with true elegance. Heavy wrinkles sat on her brow, but she did not hide them, and her hands were thin and had scattered with liver spots. Admittedly, the style of her day dress was from the end of the last century, but she wore it well.

“Thank you, Aunt Faustine.”

“Just eat it all up, my boy,” she told him. “How can our favourite auror protect us if he’s just skin and bones?”

She let him place a kiss on her hand and looked curiously at the pin that Percival held. 

"About time," Faustine sighed. "You are not yet old, but do understand that your mother worries for you. She is left all alone at that big estate, in the middle of nowhere, with nought but the horses and re’em. She wants you to have someone strong, someone, that can stand next to you, not behind you."

Percival closed his fist around the pin and met Faustine’s eyes. His mouth thinned as he heard her words. Faustine knew the struggles that the Graves family had faced in the last few decades, especially _Maman,_ so she said the words he knew _Maman_ would not. Percival swallowed thickly and nodded.

“Let me have a look.”

Percival handed her the pin, watching as she turned it this way and that.

“Well, I cannot decide if it’s a darling thing or rather morose,” Faustine said, handing the pin back to Percival.

“Why?” Not too sure if he wanted to know the answer. “Do you know something about the family this comes from?”

"No, nothing of the sort, my dear boy," she chuckled and took his hand in hers. "Now, to you, being all straight-laced and probably too book smart for his own good, ah, do not interrupt dear." Faustine held up a finger in warning. “This little pin must look like any old bumblebee, when in fact, it is a glumbumble.”

Percival raised an eyebrow at that. He had never heard of a glumbumble. He was now of the impression that they were rather silly, useless creatures because in all the years he had worked as an auror, in all the smugglers’ dens he had raided, has he ever seen or heard of one.

He was left to enjoy his meal. Percival enjoyed all the food, from the extra fresh bread to the beans. Percival looked at the other patrons that were seated outside under the awning. Animated conversations and hearty meals all abounded. Children ran by in the street with enchanted bubbles in hand. He ordered another coffee, content to just watch people go about their day from his seat inside the café.     

***

Old Forest Hall, England

24 November 1913

 

Newt watched as Ferdinand tried to preen the feathers of his chest. Ferdinand was one of the older hippogriff stallions in the Scamander stables, but he still brought in money on the regular for the stables with his stud fee now that he was too old to compete anymore. What made the hippogriff so sought-after was his plumage. His bloodline had been looked after rather closely by Mother and Ferdinand was, according to Demetrius, the result he had been after for all those long years.

“You’ll look like your handsome old self in no time,” Newt reassured as he brushed down the hippogriff’s hindquarters. “Yes, you know what I’m talking about, don’t you pretend you don’t.”

Ferdinand made an indignant sound. Newt swiftly ducked as a large wing spread out that nearly knocked him off his feet. He knew it was just the hippogriff’s way of playing with him, so he glided his brush over one of Ferdinand’s more sensitive spot, the hippogriff shuddered and continued plucking out old feathers.

“Now now, none of that attitude,” Newt reprimanded. “You know once you’re done moulting, mating season isn’t too far behind. I’ll barely have time to see you if a–”

“Newton Artemis Fido Scamander!” Demetrius bellowed.

Newt paused his work and stepped away from Ferdinand, sure that all the hippogriffs would not be happy being close to humans if one of them was angry, which his mother seemed to be. He gathered up all his supplies and left Ferdinand’s pen, racking his mind to find a reason for his mother’s sudden outburst.

“Yes, Mother?”

With the latch to the pen secured, Newt took his wand from the loop by his belt and had the supplies return to their proper place. Proud that he could do that sort of magic without a verbal command, he momentarily forgot about his mother.

“I want to see you in the kitchen,” Demetrius said as he appeared at the stable entrance, his expression stern.   

Newt was sure it was about his recent test scores. He had taken some mock tests in preparation for his N.E.W.T.S. that he was allowed to complete through a correspondence course with the Ministry. He knew he was terrible at History of Magic, but with the theory of Transfiguration, Potions and Herbology were at least on an E level, the rest he would need to work at a bit more to do more than simply pass. Newt tucked his want back into the loop below his belt and followed in his mother’s wake. Various witches and wizards that Demetrius had under his employ sent small smiles Newt’s way as they passed by on the way to the house.

Demetrius held open the back door for Newt. Gilly, their house-elf, appeared and used her magic to clean off the dust and hay on her masters’ shoes. Newt thanked her and Demetrius smiled. They left the back entrance and stepped into the kitchen. A large, unknown bird sat on the perch next to the breakfast table, its white and dark feathers made it stand out in the midst of the copper sheen given off by the pots and pans lining the shelving cabinets and the soft browns of the woodwork and tiles.

With his lip tucked in-between in his teeth, Newt continued into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the counter by the sink. His heart felt like it would beat right out of his chest. In the past few days since he had sent the letter off to this mysterious P, Newt had been so busy between studying and fussing over Ferdinand. He had purposefully kept himself busy so that he would not have to think about the fact that he had sent out his letter.

Newt had set himself up for more hurt. The alpha, this P, had been abrasive at first, but that had turned out to be an honest mistake on his part and had been kind to Newt for the rest of the evening. It still did not help that he spent night after night drafting countless letters that he had either found fault with or that he had simply lost his nerve to send and tossed the paper into the fire.

The betrayal from Leta’s casual dismissal of their friendship was still fresh, even months later. That pain was what had held him back against hoping that the alpha would allow for Newt to continue exchanging letters. 

To be honest, Newt didn't know how he thought he was going to continue on with the letters without his family finding out, even if he was sure that the envelope that lay on the table only had his pin in it. He heard his mother talking to the house-elf for a moment and then there was a hand on his shoulder. Newt flinched and then tensed up, afraid of what his mother had to say.

“Sit down, darling,” Demetrius said.

Newt put his glass of water down and did as he was told. He watched his mother stand there for a moment, just staring at the wall, raking fingers through his greying red-brown hair. Demetrius sighed and looked to his son then to the bird on the perch that was for the use of post owls to rest and drink water.

With his eyes hidden behind his fringe, Newt looked down at this lap and nervously twisted his fingers, waiting for something to happen. His mother was the one in control of the situation, and Newt was just there to accept the bitter consequences of his actions.

Demetrius sat down across from Newt, with the letter between them.      

“Tell me about this alpha.”

Demetrius had staunchly been against Newt attending the Gala, but the combined will of his father and Aunt Aretha has worn his mother down in the end.  Newt’s breath caught in his throat. That was all his mother had to say? Was his mother not angry? He had seemed angry, but if he was this calm now, Newt was truly worried about what punishment he would have to face. They would make him join the Ministry, like Theseus.

“It’s, well,” Newt was unsure of what to say because this was all new to him. “He–”   

Newt found himself unable to continue, unable to get his words past the lump in his throat. Demetrius reached out and held his hand open over the table. Newt darted his eyes towards his mother and then slowly placed his hand into Demetrius’ warm, calloused hand.

“Breathe Newt,” Demetrius said and took a few moments to guide his son through some deep, calming breaths. “Better?”

With a slight nod, Newt swallowed past the lump in his throat.

“I met him at Witley Court,” he said quietly. “It was all by accident, really. There were these young nifflers, you see. They stole some things and I tracked them down. I found the last niffler with this alpha. He was treating the niffler gently, well, as gently as he knew how.”

Demetrius chuckled at that and prompted for Newt to continue.

“He helped me with them and h-he was kind to me, well he also thought I tried to steal the nifflers for nefarious purposes, but he promptly apologized when he realised that was not the case.”

Demetrius had a sad look in his eyes.

“Aren’t you angry?”

“Angry, no, but I am disappointed, Newt. I was more shocked than anything and I let it get the better of me for a moment. There was no need to hide this from the family. I know your father and I argued as of late about you socializing more away from home to meet potential suitors, but you can always confide in your father and I. You know that, don’t you? ”

The large bird moved about on the perch and let out a few soft sounds. Newt stood up and checked that there was enough water in the bowl and then retrieved some treats from a nearby cabinet. They were owl treats, but it was all he had to give the bird. He stood in front of the bird with the jar of treats in hand.

"This is all I have," Newt whispered. "You'll just get one or two if you're hungry. Hopefully, I'll be able to find information on your species in a book a little later to look after you better while you rest.”

Demetrius watched from his seat at the table. He saw a lot of himself in his son, not just their physical resemblance, but the comfort that the boy shared when with creatures as well. He couldn’t help but look at Newt and just wish all the happiness in the world for his boy.

“I expect you to talk with your father and I after dinner, understood?”

Newt inclined his head and gave up on holding the unwanted treat to the bird. He put the jar away and looked at the letter for a time before his mother picked it up and held it out to him. Newt gave a watery smile but made no move to take it. Now that he had calmed down somewhat, he realised that it was strange that the bird still remained after it had successfully delivered the letter. If the envelope did contain his pin, there was no reason for it to stay.

He found himself being scared. When Newt looked at the envelope, his throat constricted and tears well up in his in frustration. All his self-confidence he had had when finally finished writing that letter had been stamped down by the weight of ugly experience.

“Could,” Newt started to say, but he was unsure of what he actually wanted to ask.

Demetrius waited patiently, the letter still in hand.

“Could you sit with me, while I read the letter?”

“Of course, darling.”

Newt sat back down at the table and took the letter from Demetrius. He admired the silver, rampant piasa bird encircled by an oak wreath seal the envelope. Gently, the seal was broken with trembling fingers.

 

_Dear N,_

_I was surprised when the letter was handed to me after all this time since the Gala, but I do indeed remember you. You left quite the impression with your muddy shoes, quiet words and your kindness towards those nifflers. I apologise once again for accusing you the way I did._

_I must also say that I agree with your sentiment on the formalities of the European customs of courtship. In America, the rules are not as stringent, but if you are comfortable with this, then I see no problem in forgoing the correspondence guidelines either._

_I know it was dark when we met and there was only the light of the moon, so I feel somewhat justified in asking after your age. I assumed you were young, but I do have to wonder exactly how young you are. I myself am no longer a young man, being at the age of thirty-one. If my age in any way bothers you, please do not feel guilty about declining further correspondence._

_With regards to your question about my family crest, it is indeed accurate. The Graves Estate had once been home to a herd of them in the past, but they have since then moved on. As for finding them in the wild, it is debatable. Some believe they have been hunted to extinction while others believe they went into hiding, away from humans. The keeping magical creatures requires, by law, that the witch or wizard apply for a permit and so far no one has had a permit drawn up for the possession of a piasa bird as of yet. I have not come across any when there have been raids on smuggling rings either._

_I have had an acquaintance copy over a sketch from an old family journal that recorded paisa bird behaviours. You seemed genuinely interested, so I thought you might appreciate it._

_I look forward to your next letter._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_P_

_P.S. I would just like you to know that I had to consult several books to try and find out what a glumbumble actually is. Why would a creature that produces treacle that induces melancholy be used as a crest for the omegas of your family?_

_P.P.S. I know we’re not supposed to mention family names as I have above, but seeing as we have both now agreed to be more informal in our letters, I see no problem with doing so as you seemed to not have any recognition of who I was the night of the Gala._

_P.P.P.S Mélanie, my hawk, should be well-behaved while she waits for your response. If she shuffles around or seems cranky, she might be hungry and then please allow her outside to let her hunt._

 

Newt read it a second time, then a third. He was genuinely surprised. In a rush, he thrust the letter into his mother’s hands and looked at the second sheaf of paper for the first time. The sketch was more than what he thought it would be. The creature seemed to be lounged on the edge of a cliff, looking off into the distance. With a large body and intelligence in those eyes set on a more intimidating face than one would typically find on a stag, it set an imposing image. Newt had expected it to bear more resemblance with the peryton but there was in fact very little beyond that they both had antlers, wings and shared some similar facial structure.      

“My,” Demetrius said, at a loss for words. “A Graves?”

Newt chewed at his lip and looked up from the sketch to find his mother looking at him with bright eyes and a smile.

“It, ah, it appears so.”

 

 


	2. The Second Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the reception the first chapter received! I hope you all enjoy this chapter.

24 November 1913 (later that evening)

 

Newt followed his parents to the living room with Sophie, their crup, close behind. Nothing had been said over dinner, and even knowing that his mother seemed to be alright with Newt’s spontaneous pre-courtship correspondence, he knew that Father would be the more difficult of the two. The man would surely forget the fact that it had been him that had sent his son to the Gala to ‘socialise’ in the first place.

A fire was burning in the fireplace when they entered. Demetrius and Eldred took up their usual armchairs on either side of the hearth while Newt quietly sat on the couch and watched as Sophie settled herself onto the floor cushion.

The family portraits in the living room were more occupied than usual, and it did nothing to ease Newt. He did notice, however, that the portrait of Artemis, an ancestor who he had been named after, was the only one not watching with rapt attention, simply because the man was not in his portrait to begin with. The old, gilded frame held nothing but a canvas with an empty workbench by a desk cluttered with wood shavings and tools. Supposedly, he spent most of his time occupying his portrait at Ilvermornny. Newt didn’t understand why they kept that portrait there when any other portrait could be placed above the fireplace.

Eldred cleared his throat and Demetrius, with his one leg crossed over the other, gave his husband a sidelong look. Gilly appeared with a tray of tea and biscuits. Newt was glad for the distraction and busied himself with his cup, piling a few of the biscuits into his saucer. From the aroma, it had to be mint tea, the leaves plucked not too long ago from their garden.

“Newt,” Eldred said.

“Eldred,” responded Demetrius.

Newt pursed his lips. The room was tense. It was common knowledge that Newt had been the subject of nearly every row his parents had had these last few months. Tonight would seem to be no different. Newt hated it. It made him feel like he was lacking in his father’s eyes, that he would be unable to support himself or see his dreams come true.

Eldred gave an exasperated sigh.

“I’ve already explained the basics of what happened this afternoon,” Demetrius said. “You, do however need to tell us more about this man other than his kindness.”

Newt looked up at his parents then down to his teacup again. He ran a finger along the golden edge on the rim of the white cup. He didn’t know what else to say. The man had been kind. Mr Graves had praised Newt for his supposed courage and smarts when he thought there was really nothing to be praised for. He wondered if his parents wanted to know what Mr Graves looked like. Newt himself is not entirely sure, but he did remember dark, styled hair, a heavy set of low eyebrows and a calm, controlled voice.

“What I want to know is why Theseus let you out of his sight at all,” Eldred chipped in.

“Oh, no, Theseus has nothing to do with this, honestly,” Newt said in a rush. “He had left me with Cousin Ione, but it’s easy to slip away from her.”

“And why, pray tell by Merlin’s balls, did you do that?”

Newt mumbled out his answer.

“I did not hear you,” Eldred said sternly.

“NIfflers,” was all Newt said.

“Niff-”

“Yes, our boy went chasing after nifflers, as he is wont to do,” Demetrius interrupted. “This is nothing new Eldred, so please let us concentrate on the more important details”       

Eldred and Newt both pursed their lips and looked to Demetrius. Newt always marvelled at Mother's ability to make Father derail off of his set path in any given situation. His father was headstrong and confident in his ways, something that undoubtedly helped him be the respected auror he was. Newt would admire those qualities – in small doses, on any other given day than that day.

“Oh.”

“Yes, darling?” Demetrius asked as he noticed a look pass over his son’s face.

“I, well this might not be fact, but I think that he might be an auror. That might not help, but other than what I’ve already told Mother, I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

Eldred sighed once more and drank his tea.

“It will certainly help your father become more susceptible to the idea of you courting,” Demetrius said slyly from behind his teacup. “Mr Graves is, in fact, an auror, one that's quickly rising through the Congress' ranks if rumours are to be believed."

Newt gave a slight nod, nibbling on a biscuit. Being an auror was a dangerous occupation, not to mention one that sometimes required long hours. He knew this from Father and Theseus. He had to wonder how his mother had come by this information so quickly.

“Bah,” Eldred fussed. “An auror this Mr Graves may be, but the man is thirty-one! I will not cart off Newton, who is not yet seventeen, over to America and to an alpha that has been unmarried for so long. There has to be a serious fault with the man." 

“My my, it has been some time since I have heard that name.”

Newt’s eye shot up from where they were looking at the carpet. He noticed the surprise on his parents’ faces as well. He looked around, but the family portraits also seemed to be in a state of shock.

“Artemis?” Demetrius asked, looking up at the portrait above the mantle.

“Good evening, Demetrius,” Artemis replied. “Ah, I have yet to meet young Newton, have I not?”

Newt was unsure of what to say. He had grown up having the portraits know him, and now there was one in their living room that was practically a stranger but for the unbelievably strong family resemblance.    

“Hullo,” he greeted, not meeting Artemis’ eyes, but looking just off of his shoulder at the long, gently curling hair that rested there.

Artemis smiled. “I do believe I heard talk of the Graves family, yes?”

Demetrius told him about what had happened that afternoon. “You spend most of your time at Ilvermorny, do you remember anything abou–”

“It can only be young Percival,” Artemis said with a sigh. “He is the last of the Graves line. I knew his ancestor, when we were both still alive that is.”

Newt’s heart was in his throat. He knew Mr Graves’ given name now. For all his talk of foregoing formalities, he had stuck with only signing his letter with his initial, as had Mr Graves. It seemed somewhat surreal, now knowing his given name.

“Gondulphus was quite the unlicked cub when he and his crew blundered their way to Ilvermorny. Banged on the doors, loud as you like, and shouted: ‘I am in need of wand! Make me a wand and I shall let you name your price.’”

There was a nostalgic look in Artemis’ deep green eyes. Newt was unsure what this had to do with their current discussion. Neither of his parents seemed inclined to interrupt.

“I took one look at this man, with his motley crew, and asked William, the school’s resident pukwudgie leader, to chase them off of the grounds. The very next day, however, he was back. I had William chase him from the grounds once again, but Gondulphus proved persistent as he returned day after day. I was the school’s first official wandmaker, so after weeks of insistent banging and shouting, I met with him. I told him I would craft him a wand or let him choose from my collection if he brought back the feather of any magical bird native to the land, but one that was freely given and not taken.

"Months had gone by, and I had since then thought that the man had either died in the attempt to do what I asked or failed to attempt it in the first place. I was proven wrong, however." 

There was a stretch of silence.

"Your son could do a lot worse than getting married into the Graves family," Artemis said with a rush as if he had just remembered where he was. “Young Percival certainly is a good match for our young Newton.”

Newt's face reddened. He was only still in the pre-courtship stage and now he was being told by the portrait of his long-dead ancestor that he very much well had his blessing to marry Mr Graves.

“It seems my presence is required at Ilvermorny,” Artemis said with a look over his shoulder. “I bid you a good evening.”

Newt blinked and the portrait was empty once more.

“Why do we keep that portrait there?” Eldred asked of no one in particular. “That’s the first time in years he’s decided we were worthy of his presence.”  

Demetrius turned his attention back to his family. “Artemis was a very influential man, back in his lifetime, but we shall talk of him another time.”

Newt looked back down at his teacup.

“With regards to Mr Graves," Demetrius started, "I have to agree with your father on this matter. He is uncommonly old to be unmarried. I would have overlooked it if he had had a spouse previously, but as it stands, he had never been married before. Even Theseus, who himself is considered older than the norm to be unmarried, is at least engaged."

Sophie gave a great huff and rolled over onto her back. Newt stared at her. He did not mind Mr Graves’ age, not entirely. He only wanted someone who would be kind to him. Even if that kindness would only last for so long before he got annoyed and bored with Newt, like everyone else beyond the family.

“I see,” Newt said, more as an attempt to fill the silence that had settled over the room.

Eldred put down his teacup and saucer with a _clank_ and stood, his back turned to his family to face the fireplace. Demetrius watched as Newt continued to fiddle interchangeably with his teacup and biscuits.

“We shall continue this discussion between the three of us at a later time,” Eldred said, still watching the flames. “For now, I think it is acceptable if you wish to continue exchanging letters with Mr Graves while your mother and I come to a conclusion on the matter.”

Newt dropped his biscuit into his tea. Demetrius looked wide-eyed at his husband.

“Don’t the two of you look at me like that,” Eldred warned half-heartedly. “I can see the advantages of this continuing, but I am not pleased with it, not in the least, so we will discuss with later, over the weekend.”

Newt set his teacup and saucer down and looked to his mother. Demetrius gave a small smile and said good night. Newt did the same, eager to leave the room. He had barely taken three strides away from the living room when he heard his mother’s voice. Newt paused.

“Eldred, “Demetrius said, his voice raised and tight. “You can’t be serious. There is _no_ advantage to getting married into a Pact family. Those Original Twelve are especially dangerous.”

Newt wondered if he should linger any longer than he had already had. The term of a Pact family was familiar to him only because his mother had him study obscure history alongside his study of the family’s history. He had no idea what a Pact family was other than the Scamanders were by large falsely thought of being a Pact family.  

Ultimately, it was in his best interests to stay away from his parents during a fight. He walked on and had reached the stairs to go to his bedroom when he heard a soft sort of chirp. It had to be Mélanie. He went to the kitchen instead and saw that the bird, which he had identified as a western osprey, had returned from her hunt.

“Did you have a nice dinner?” Newt asked her as he slipped on a glove. “I know that the river behind the house has nice fish this time of year. Would you like to retire with me to my bedroom? It’s warmer there.”

Mélanie blinked and tilted her head. Newt steadily held out his arm and waited for her to accept his invitation.

“Your master has never had you fly so far, has he?”

Newt knew that people thought it queer that he talked to animals, not even just magical creatures, but all animals. He knew they snickered behind his back, especially during his time at Hogwarts. Not even Leta had understood that he didn’t talk to emulate a conversation, Newt talked to creatures because he could _talk_ to creatures. He knew the magical languages of sentient creatures like Parseltongue and mermish without effort, and that only made him more ostracised from human social circles.

Mélanie regarded him for a moment longer then hopped off of the perch and onto Newt’s gloved hand. He was happy that she trusted him enough to let him carry her without needing to use a lure to coax her into his hand. He could tell Mélanie was tired, even after being at rest for the past few hours.

With the hawk on his hand, Newt made his way once more to his bedroom. He had just opened the door when Mélanie flew out of his hand and onto the perch beside his desk. Newt smiled and pulled off the heavy leather glove.   

He sat down by his desk and with his wand he had all his school books float away to the bookshelf to create more space for the mess he was about to make. The desk was a large rolltop that his father had purchased for him when he had started his home tutoring. Most of his school supplies were shoved into the bookshelf, and the desk used to keep various notebooks, journals and academic works on creatures. He kept a collection of river rocks he had been obsessed with as a small child in one of the smaller drawers and the other, larger drawers were used to store bones, eggshells, feathers and the like. 

His desk was organized to his needs. Newt knew where to find what he needed when he needed it. Several potted plants occupied the top shelf. He had gotten them from Aunt Aretha’s garden after he had noticed that garden gnomes avoided getting too close to them. He was in the process of trying to figure out which of the plants deterred the creatures and why.

Now that he had his parents’ approval, he wanted to write another letter to Mr Graves tonight. He took out a few sheaves of paper and opened Mr Graves’ letter to read it over once more. Other than answering some of the questions the man had asked in his letter, he realised that he had no idea what else to write about. He twirled his quill between his fingers and stared at the wall. Pages of notes and diagrams were plastered on the wall, some of them hidden behind the plants, but the sketch of the piasa bird was carefully placed between two plants, with their leaves almost framing the sketch.

The sketch had been such a lovely surprise that Newt wanted to reciprocate. He could sketch well, in his own opinion, beautifully in Theseus’ opinion, but he couldn’t very well just send the man a sketch diagraming the anatomy of garden gnomes or one detailing the structure of hippogriff flight feathers.

Mélanie sat silently observing Newt’s dilemma. She let out a squawk

“Yes,” Newt answered, “I know you’re waiting for a letter.”

He regarded the hawk for a moment, cheek resting in his palm with his elbow propped onto the desk.

“What is your master like?”

It depended entirely whether the creature was magical or not from how much the animal was able to communicate with him. If they were the former, he would get loosely strung sentences together, depending on how the creature communicated with its species. For the latter, however, he was more prone to only getting abstract concepts of what the creature felt.  

Mélanie projected feelings of fondness and absolute trust, but also worry for her human’s health and safety. Even though he could talk to animals that did not mean they would just talk back to him, they had to trust him on some level first. He thanked her and told her that he was working on the letter.

He looked at the letter once more. Mr Graves’ handwriting was very nice, not as flourished as Theseus’, but nowhere near as hastily written as Newt’s. He tapped his quill incessantly on the desk as he stared at the neat letters of black ink.       

***

MACUSA, New York

29 November 1913      

 

It was not a good day. A newspaper was thrown down onto Percival desk, without regard for the work he currently doing. He looked up and saw none of than the Director of Magical Security herself. It was most certainly not a good for Percival Graves.

“Yes?” he asked as he lifted his hand to get the newspaper off of his files.

Seraphina raised an eyebrow and was slapped the newspaper back down. He had seen enough newspapers and magazines in the past week that he could really do without seeing another for a time. Percival placed his quill to the side and gave the woman his undivided attention.

“This has to stop,” she said curtly, her finger tapping on the newspaper with each word.

He found himself barely able to contain a grimace as he took the newspaper in hand. The paper was a copy of the New York Ghost that read:

_GRAVES EVADES PRESS AS SCORNED LOVER TELLS ALL_.

Percival read over the lead and skimmed through the following paragraphs. He had a vague idea of who Sasha Farseer, the supposed ‘scorned lover’, was and how she had been involved in his life. His age in conjunction to his marital status was brought up no less than three separate times, followed by comments from Sasha about apparent faults he had that led him to be a bachelor at the age of thirty-one. Percival had to scoff at the idea that the journalist had gotten into their head that him erecting a barrier to keep an active crime scene uncontaminated by outside influences was in actual fact him doing all he could to avoid the press.  

“What do you want me to do?”

“Give them what they want and get them off of our crime scenes,” Seraphina ordered.

“No. There is no way I will willingly go to the Ghost and talk about a _personal_ matter.”

“My office,” she said and turned on her heel.

Percival closed his files and threw the Ghost into the bin. He left the Major Investigations offices and went up a level to get to Seraphina's office. The Director of Magical Security’s office shared the floor with the offices of the Auror Commissioner from the Department of Aurors, and the Federal Identity Commissioner, among of other important appointments within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.  

Mr Partridge, Seraphina’s secretary, looked up at Percival with an apologetic smile and waved him through to Seraphina’s door. Percival stood in front of her desk and looked over the various newspapers and tabloids that covered it. There was even the gossip rag whose article that had started it all.       

The article nearly had an entire page dedicated to a photo of Percival admiring the pin in his hand and then a close-up, yet blurry shot of the pin itself. He had to admit, the last place he had expected the tabloids to find him was at Little Europe, and in Faustine’s café no less. He was used to seeing his picture in tabloids, as a direct descendant of the Original Twelve he had no choice in the matter. The recent slew gossip was not something he was used to, however. 

He was thankful that whoever had written that article evidently had no far-reaching contacts in order to try and identify the family behind the pin. Percival could only imagine that as bad as the situation was for him now, that it would quickly snowball if N's family got dragged into it all. It would be a gross breach of courtship protocol to advertise something so personal between the families, no matter how unintentional.

“Look,” Seraphina said as she had a pot of coffee prepare two cups, “I know this is exasperating for you, but this is getting ridicules. What happened in Queens was the last straw.”

Percival knew what she was referring to. A reporter, eager to question Percival had entered an active crime scene that Percival was investigating and had inadvertently set off a trap that blew up half of the building. It had been utter chaos since then. He sat down as a cup of coffee floated before him.

“I’m sorry, Director,” he apologized, as was expected of him. “I will not go to the press and talk about something as new or as personal as this.”

“And what is ‘this’?” She tapped the photo of Percival at the café.

That was to be expected, he thought. Many traditions that wizarding folk had brought over when they had first landed in America and been adapted to suit their needs better or even outright forgotten. Favour pins had been one such tradition lost to time in America. While Percival and Seraphina had grown up knowing each other, their families were from different social spheres. The Graves of the Antiqued Rogue Ranch had always been and maintained to remain, the most respected clients of the Lewis Apothecary run by Seraphina’s family. 

Percival drank his coffee and explained it to her. Seraphina listened without interrupting. When he was finished, he put his cup down, waving his hand to stop the pot from refilling his cup.

“Well, at least now I can understand your reluctance to go to the press,” she said. “That does still leave us with our current problem.” She flicked her wand and the various tabloids and newspapers deposited themselves into the bin.

The only solution he could see presenting itself was that he was to be temporarily demoted, and kept to desk work, out of the public eye. A knock at the door sounded and Seraphina called the person in. Partridge entered with a clipboard in hand.

“Sorry to interrupt, Director,” he said. “The headmaster of Ilvernmorny wants the final list of employees you’ll be sending over to attend the career talk.”

As soon as Partridge said that, Percival frowned and rubbed a hand over his eyes.

“I’ll give you the list by the end of the day,” Seraphina answered, her face blank. “Thank you, Mr Partridge.”

As soon as the man left, Percival began to object.

Seraphina held up a finger. "It's either this, or I demote you to desk work. Both will keep you out of the press for the time being. Also, I've been told to inform you that Wizarding Resources would like to have a word with you, at your earliest convenience.”

“Fine,” Percival said as he got up. “I’ll go to Ilvermorny, Director.”

He had just reached the door when Seraphina called out.

“Speaking strictly as your friend,” she said, “I would never have pegged you for the type.”

Percival knew she was baiting him. He was too tired to try to keep his wits about him with this woman. “What type am I?”

“What was the term for it? A cradle robber, I believe.”

He turned around, his eyes wide at that.

“I am merely joking, of course, but do be careful. This could end _very_ badly for you.”

Percival nodded and left, her words sinking to his stomach. He took the elevator up to Wizarding Resources and was thoroughly questioned on the content of the latest article the Ghost had written about him. Most of it was pure slander and as such, he was told that he had the right to sue the Ghost. He considered it and decided that yes, it was a good idea and it would certainly make other journalists a tad more hesitant to write about him as they pleased.

He continued with his day and wrote up his final report concerning the fwooper incident as well as a letter to the Director herself that something needed to be done about the standards at which their field offices operated. Percival declined the invitation to join others for a drink and apparated to the alleyway across from his apartment building. 

He crossed the street and paid little mind to the security guard at reception. Unlike most wizards, Percival did not obliviate all No-Majs into thinking that neither he nor his apartment existed. He had done it when he had first moved out to New York, but soon found it too taxing to continue. He paid his rent with No-Maj money exchanged at Gringotts, but he did not go as far as to converse with the No-Majs he shared the building with.

Percival took the elevator to his floor and deftly dodged the nagging old spinster down the hall from him as he ducked into his apartment. With the door closed behind him, Percival removed his overcoat and let it hang itself on the standing coat rack.

A small bell on the mantle above the fireplace chimed in the sitting room. Percival undid his tie and unbuttoned his collar as he made his way to the sitting room. The only thing besides the details of his life and the magic he used to safeguard his apartment that he kept strictly out of No-Maj neighbours’ knowledge was the disillusioned, large mew that he had built onto the fire escape he had magically extended to house Mélanie.

The hawk sat on the outer windowsill, a letter in her beak. He opened the window and let her fly in. He noticed that Heidi, his hired house-elf, had already fed her, as evidenced from the bits of fish flesh left in the bowl. Percival watched as Mélanie dropped the letter on the seat of his armchair and groom herself from the top of his chair.

Percival left the window open to allow Mélanie to return to her mew when she wished. He admired her for a moment, stroking her head and saying a few words of praise. He had been worried about her. It was her furthest flight to date. Previously he had only sent her home, to Wyoming, delivering letters to _Maman_.

He stared at the letter that lay on the seat of his chair. Percival picked it up by a corner, almost as if he expected it to explode, and sat down. The envelope was of the same quality as the previous one. He sighed and put it down on the end table at his elbow. He did not have the energy to read it. Seraphina’s comment, still fresh in his mind, factored in his newfound hesitancy to read the letter.

He had a presentation to plan for his trip to Ilvermorny in the next few days. Percival had even less energy to do that, but it had to be done. Perhaps in an hour or so, after he had had a drink and showered. The letter could wait for the time being. Mélanie could certainly use the rest, she had earned it.

With his mind made, Percival stood and lit wicks as he went to his bedroom. A motion of his finger to the bathroom opposite had hot water rushing out of the showerhead. A wave of his hand carelessly over his shoulder had the gramophone slide the needle onto the plate to play some Chopin. Percival divested himself right down to his union suit.

He crossed the hallway and into the bathroom. Percival routinely washed and scrubbed before he dried himself off. He was not one to dally in the bathroom when there were other things he could be doing. He buttoned up his twill pyjama top and swept his wet hair to the side.

A tumbler of Irish No-Maj whiskey later found Percival in his study, at his desk, drafting rough points to talk on. It was more of a challenge than he supposed it would be. He knew which subjects he had needed to excel in when he had been at Ilvermorny to get admitted into the Auror Academy, but it might have changed since then.

A separate memo off to the side listed off things he would have to look into in the coming days, most of which involved going to the Auror Academy to speak to the head instructor. Percival wondered about which of his whiskey bottles he would be willing to part with in order to gift it to the man as a show of appreciation for his troubles.

The drafting and redrafting his speech continued for some time before Percival had had enough. He sighed and sat back in his chair. He put his quill away and stood up. He stretched and regarded the wall by the fireplace. Idly, he tossed more logs into the fire and stoked the dying embers.

Mug shots, reports, statements and notes were tacked onto the wallpaper. Percival looked over the photo of Billy Blackfingers. There was something about the man and the way he operated that did not sit right. He had been so certain he would finally catch him back in September, but he slipped through the net. What Percival was doing was by no means official in any capacity, he would, however, keep it that way. He had no inclination to trust anyone in his department with what he was investigating.

Percival turned away and left for his bedroom. In a way, to his mind, the decision that Seraphina made to send him to Ilvermorny was heaven-sent. He had contacts there, in the area, that he had been too apprehensive to reach out for fear of sending the wrong people into hiding.

*** 

The next two days passed in a blur as Percival continued his work and finalised his speech for his trip to Ilvermorny. He was allowed to floo from the Woolworth Building right to the Pukwudgie’s Rest, a tavern in the town of Hoosuc just outside of Ilvermorny’s grounds.

Seraphina saw him off. Percival was the last in a line of the MACUSA employees to leave.  

“With the hullabaloo of you in the papers as of late, I have no doubt that your talk will be the one with the most attendance.”

“The talk with the most redundant follow-up questions you mean,” Percival said. “I’ll hand over a report on it when I return, Director.”

He took a handful of floo powder and pronounced his destination. Percival dusted himself off and stepped onto the hearth in the tavern.

 “Welcome to Pukwudgie’s Rest,” an old wizard greeted. “I imagine you’re the last one then?”

“Yes. Senior Auror Graves of the Major Investigations office from the DMLE of MACUSA.” 

“Yes yes, you’re all important people wanting to whisk away all of the young folks to the big cities,” the old man complained. “Dinner’ll be at Ilvermorny in two or so hours. Here’s your key.”

Percival accepted the battered key without a word. He cast a cursory glance about the tavern. Some of the employees that had used the floo before him sat at tables nursing a drink. There were many faces he didn’t recognise. He adjusted his grip on the handle of his bag as he tried to read the worn-out number painted on the tag of the key.    

“Nice bag, grandpa,” a woman snorted from her seat near the fireplace.

Ah yes, his grandfather’s trusty, old carpetbag. Old Cullen Graves had infiltrated a railroad construction company with the sole aim of steering the rails away from magical communities and claimed that the bag had been his sole reason for making it out of the whole ordeal alive. It was certainly not a fashionable item by any means with its faded colouring, but it was considered a lucky charm.

Percival gave her a thin smile and set out to find his room. The career talk would only commence properly the next day, but all those attending had been invited to join the professors for dinner at the school. He supposed it was all part of trying to create the right atmosphere among the older students.

The tavern was old, but it seemed well kept. Percival guessed that one of the numbers on the tag had to be a three, so be proceeded to try turning the key in every door bearing a three. He only managed to find the right door after he had gone to the third floor. The room was standard, in that it had all the necessities and no frills. It was only for four evenings, so Percival thought the school was justified in only spending money on adequate accommodation.

He set his bag down and took off his outer coat. He had two hours before he absolutely needed to leave his room. There was no point in him trying to get to know the other attendees, as none of them would be worthwhile to add to his social network. The professors were another matter. It would do him well to get to know some of the foremost witches and wizards in their respective fields. It was beyond him why they chose to teach children instead of furthering their careers beyond the achievements they had already made.

If his brief interaction with that woman earlier was an indication, Percival had a feeling that the crowd downstairs, barring the MACUSA employees, consisted of those he would find ill company with. He doubted he would even enjoy being with the MACUSA employees either. He had spent his whole professional career distancing himself from everyone other than who he needed to know in order to function as an effective auror that he doubted the other employees would welcome him in any case.

With his options whittling down, the letter in his pocket seemed to weigh heavier in his pocket by the second. Percival sat on the edge of the bed. He withdrew the letter and stared at his family crest N had branded on the envelope with his Favour pin. With a sigh, he broke the seal and started to read.     

 

_Dear Mr Graves,_

_I will, naturally, start this letter by thanking you for the sketch. It was completely unnecessary but wholeheartedly appreciated. The sketch has been invaluable to me as it has already vetoed several texts claiming that the paisa bird is merely a peryton that had been smuggled into America. The jaw structure alone looks significantly different enough to also rule out the idea of evolutionary adaptation. Although evolutionary adaptation is a Muggle devised theory, I believe it deserves more credit amongst magizoologists. In the least, it should be used by dragon keepers to better understand the more subtle differences between the species._

_Much headway has been made of late within the field of the study of dragons. I am currently reading through a riveting text,_ The Future of Dragons in the Wizarding World, _but I must digress that while most of the work is theoretical it does, however, present a unique awareness of the possibility of a more harmonious integration of magical creatures into the wizarding culture beyond their harvest for potion ingredients._  

_You must excuse me. I had merely intended to thank you, but I had frantically written more than you probably would have wanted to know._

_I must also confess that I was delighted that you had troubled yourself to find out what a glumbumble is and to source various texts at that. Not many would have bothered. The glumbumble is in part a very old family joke but also a symbol of our profession. My family has, since antiquity, before even settling in England, made honey mixed with glumbumle treacle to brew mead. The orchard is still operational to this day and the brewery still rolls out barrels of mead._

_Glumbumbles are fascinating to observe. Contrary to belief, a beehive must meet a stringent checklist for the glumbumble to invade and live in the hive. We must also ensure that a particular number of glumbumbles live within a hive of a particular size to ensure the ratio of honey to treacle. The flower of origin for the nectar can also alter the intensity (of the melancholy induced) and taste of the treacle._

_To broach the topic of my age, I am young. I am sixteen, however, my birthday is not too far off. I realise that this leaves a considerable age disparity between us. To be honest I have very few good experiences with peers my age, nor anyone somewhat older. It is certainly peculiar to think that you are almost double my age, but it, strangely, does not deter me._

_I was indeed shocked when you had revealed your age, but to say your name had the same effect would be a lie. I must say that Mother was very much surprised by it all, especially by your name. You are part of the Original Twelve, from what I managed to garner from Mother. I suppose it is the American equivalent of the Sacred Twenty-Eight? I am not at all interested in blood purity or politics, and therefore your family name still holds little regard for me._

_Mélanie was a delight for the day she was with me. Just by looking at her, I can tell you are a very competent handler and take good care of her. I do hope she made the flight back to you in good health and spirits._

_Also, by way of thanks for the sketch I have included a gift. Naturally, I used_ reducio _on it to lessen the strain it would have on Mélanie. I am certain you know the charm to return it to its original state._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_N_

 

He lay back and covered his eyes with the crook of his elbow, mind reeling from what he had just read. The boy was sixteen. There was a fifteen year age difference.

The media was going to tear him a new one if they ever got a hold of that information. Percival knew that he had been telling himself that he was fine with N being young, but it was too wide a gap. He wasn’t even of legal age yet. 

“Fuck,” he swore as he shot up from the bed. “Seraphina was right.”

The letter was clenched in his fist. Percival let out a shaky breath and opened up his hand. Guilt gnawed at him for being so careless with something that N had clearly been nervous in sending. The way the boy had rambled on about dragons and glumbumbles with only the two kernels of personal information tapered onto the end of the letter made that much obvious.

He sat back down on the bed and used a bit of magic to smooth out the creased paper. He reread it and focused on the two scant paragraphs where N had offered up bits of personal information. The blatant disregard for politics and social standing was refreshing. He was baffled as to why the boy was willing to continue despite the age difference. He could clearly see that there was more to it then not being good with people N’s own age.

The concern over Mélanie’s welfare was touching. It was clear by now that N had an affinity for animals, be they magical or mundane. Percival smiled as he recalled the boy’s face when he had accused him of stealing the nifflers. He was certainly still intrigued by the boy, but he was now more apprehensive in his approach to the whole ordeal.

Percival laid down the letter and reached into the envelope. A small, rectangular box was pinched between his fingers. A muttered an _engorgio_ and watched as the item expanded. It was a simple black box with a golden ribbon tied across it and a note tucked in underneath the knot. He pulled it free and read it. 

 

_This is not much, but it was all I could think of to give you. You had such nice penmanship that I thought you might appreciate a new quill. I had it commissioned from a craftsman using a flight feather that Ferdinand had preened off not too long ago._

_Ferdinand is a hippogriff, in case you were wondering. I know not many are partial to metal nibs, but they are certainly more durable, and I do remember you saying that you were no better than a niffler, so you might at least just enjoy the shininess of it._

He smirked at the last comment. Percival could hardly remember saying that. He put the note aside and undid the knot. The quill’s feather was much longer than he had expected – it was nearly the length of his entire forearm. The junction between the metal shaft and the feather looked so seamless and natural as if it had been plucked from the hippogriff as is. The ornamentation engraved into the shaft was minimal, which Percival liked, but there was no doubt as to the superb quality of it.

Percival held the quill to test its weight. He was more touched than he would ever admit. The quill had most likely been commissioned for N himself, but he had readily gifted it to Percival. It was a thoughtful, practical gift. He felt ashamed that he had gifted the boy something that he had asked Johannes to do as an afterthought. 

“How did he get a feather from a hippogriff?” he asked himself.           


End file.
